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No. 5 Hamilton Place, Boston, Massachusetts 



SILAS MARNER 

A Drama in Four Acts 

Adapted from George Eliof s Novel 



By 
FRANKLIN S. OWEN 



BOSTON 

WALTER H. BAKER & CO. 
1915 



SILAS MARNER 

CHARACTERS ^^''j ^ 

Silas Marner, a weaver. 
William Dane, his bosom friend. 
A Village Doctor at Lantern Yard. 
First Visitor. 
Second Visitor. 
Third Visitor. 

Rev. Mr. Paston, Minister at Lantern Yard. 
First Vestryman 
Second Vestryman. 
Third Vestryman. 
Squire Cass. 

Godfrey Cass 1 ^ e • /^ 

Dunstan Cass { ^"'" of Squire Cass. 
Solomon Macey, Raveloe Parish Clerk. 
Jem Rodney, a common poacher. 
Rev. Mr. Crackenthorpe, Minister at Raveloe. 
Aaron Winthrop. 
Aaron Winthrop, sixteen years later. 
Doctor Kimble. 
Mrs. Crackenthorpe. 

Nancy Lammeter, afterward Mrs. Godfrey Cass. 
Mrs. Dolly Winthrop. 
'EFPiE,foster-da2ighter of Silas Marner. 
Guests, servants, etc. 




Copyright, 191 5, by Walter H. Baker & Co. 
©Cl.D 39719 

FEB 18 1915 



Silas Marner 



ACT I 

SCENE I. — A room in the Deacon's home, plainly furnished. 
There is a fireplace, an old bureau with several drawers, an 
old table of the same sort, and other plain furniture. Seated 
about are two or three friends ; . the Doctor is busy setting 
medicines in order. 

Enter First Visitor, r. 

First Visitor. How is the Deacon to-night ? (Sits.) 

Doc. He is low, brother, very low. He can't be any 
worse and come out of it alive. But let us hope for the best. 
There ! he moans again ; I must look to my patient. (Peers 
into adjoining room; comes again to Visitors.) The man 
moans and groans more than is good for him. If you could 
assure him that the church money is safe, it would relieve his 
mind of a great weight. {Steps to bureati ; locks drawer, but 
leaves key in place.) There, he need worry no longer. The 
money is safe. But who is to watch to-night, brothers ? 

Second Visitor. I believe it is William Dane and Silas 
Marner. 

Third Visitor. The money could be in no safer hands. 

Doc. Aye, it is so. What a splendid example of friend- 
ship those two young men are ! They are like unto brothers. 
Where one goes the other follows. They are like unto David 
and Jonathan. 

Third Visitor. Ha ! here is Master William now ! 

E?iter William Dane, r. 

Doc. Good-evening, Brother William ; how fares it with 
you ? But where is your Brother Marner ? How is it he is not 
with you ? 

Will. Is he not here yet? He promised he would be here 
when the clock struck eight. But he has time yet. You won- 

3 



4 SILAS MARNER 

der why we are inseparable? He is like a brother to me. 
He helps me when I am in trouble, cheers me when I am low- 
spirited. What more could I ask of a friend ? 

Doc. Verily you have a friend in him. But listen ! do I 
not hear his footsteps ? 

E7iter Silas Marner, r. 

Will. Aye, it is he ! Ah, Master Marner, you would not 
keep your friend Jonathan long, I thought. I can always de- 
pend upon you, Silas. 

Silas. Even as I can always depend upon you, William. 

First Visitor. Well, we must be on our way, friends. 

Second Visitor. Let us hope for better news to-morrow, 
Doctor. Good-evening, Master Marner; good-night. Brother 
WiUiam. \_Exeunt Visitors, r. 

Doc. I, too, must bid you good-night, friends. Watch 
carefully to-night. If the Deacon wakes give him one of those 
powders there on the table. If he grows very nervous send 
for me. The money, you know, is there in the bureau. Guard 
it carefully. It would break the old man's heart to have it 
taken. But I must go. Good-night and good luck. \_Exit, r. 

Silas. Well, William, I (Deacon groans. Silas 

hastens to door of adjoining room.) Aye, Deacon, I am here. 
I will watch with you till one. Then Brother William Dane 
will take my place. Yes, yes, I'll watch the money carefully. 
Yes, yes, now try to sleep. 

(Will, is testing his pipe which refuses to draw.') 

Will. Have you your knife handy, Silas ? I lost mine last 
Whitsuntide. (Silas hands hiftt knife. Will, clears pipe and 
puts ktiife in his own pocket.') I must be off soon. I'm sorry 
to leave you alone. But I'll relieve you at one. Good-night, 
good brother. 

{Exit, R. ^iLAS paces floor, talking.) 

Silas. William is a friend indeed ! I wish I might be 
more like him ! I am a poor, weak creature. I have a 
strange infirmity that comes over me without warning. Wouldn't 
it be terrible if I should be seized by one of those strange 
visitations in my silent watch here with this sick Deacon ? — 
But what have I to fear? My friend William knows my in- 
firmity and he would care for me if he found me in that state. 



SILAS MARKER 5 

That's a comforting thought. Without that I'd feel worried 
watching the Deacon and the church money. But I must not 
make myself worry. I'll sit here near the Deacon and be 
ready if he wakes. How drowsy I am ! Sarah would laugh 
at me, or pity me, if she saw me so sleepy. She's a dear girl, 
and I hope to marry her. Every one loves her. William 
loves us both and would be glad to see us married, I am sure. 
Even then his faith in me will not be shaken. If he should 
ever desert me or betray me I would not care to live. Oh ! I 
must not think of such disagreeable things. William is a 
friend — a friend — for life. 

(Silas is taken by an epileptic fit. After a pause mid- 
night strikes. Enter 'Wi'LL., softly, V!.. \Nill. takes front 
his pocket Silas's knife.) 

Will. I forgot to give you your knife Ha, he is ill ! 

No, it is one of his spells. What a fine watchman he is ! 
Any one could steal the money and the vestrymen could never 
find the culprit. Here is my chance ! Now I can put a spoke 
in his wheel ! Sarah would not marry a robber. No, indeed ! 
Master Marner will marry her? Not if I can prevent it ! I 
loved that girl first ; and now her affections are turned toward 
him because he has more money. I'll make it more than even 
with him ! I'll take the money, leave his knife in the drawer 
and let the people find it there. Marner, the innocent ! 
Marner, the wooer ! Ha, ha ! 

(Will, takes gold, and exits, R. After an interval Silas 
wakes.') 

Silas. Ho-hum ! Well, have I slept? A strange feeling 
hangs like lead upon me ! I hope nothing has happened. I 
ought to be ashamed of such a weakness. But it is more weari- 
some work here in this still place than weaving at my loom. — 
Why, it is nearly two o'clock. William has never failed me 
yet. He must be sick ! But I must look to the poor sick 
Deacon; he is uncommon quiet! (^Goes to adjoini?ig room.) 
My God, the poor man is dead ! His body is cold ! Oh, 
foolish, weak man that I was to fall asleep ! Why, mayhap I 
was out of my mind. Oh ! William, why did you not come ? 
But I must call for help ! {^Exit, r., hurriedly. 

CURTAIN 



6 SILAS MARNEPv 

SCENE II. — The vestry of the church. At one end of a plain , 
oblofig table the Minister of the church sits ; along the side 
are Vestrymen, among them Will. At the other end sits 
Silas. 

( Curtain rises on scene. Silas rises, protestinglyJ) 

Silas. But what have I done ? Tell me that ! 

First Vestryman. You shall hear, Master Marner, you 
shall hear. 

Minister. Silas Marner, when Brother William Dane left 
you last night in the sick Deacon's home you were to watch 
the Deacon and guard the church money. Early this morning 
you summoned us. We came. 

Second Vestryman. And you left us in too great a hurry. 

Third Vestryman. Aye, aye, there's something strange 
about that. 

First Vest. That's true. You should have faced us like 
an honest man. 

MiN. {f-aising his hand to quiet the Vestrymen). Upon 
investigation we found the money gone, the bureau rifled. 
In the drawer where the money had been we found — your 
knife ! Some hand has removed that bag of money. 

First Vest. And whose hand can it be, if not the one who 
owns that knife ? 

MiN. What have you to say to the charge of stealing, 
Master Marner? 

Silas. God will clear me. I know nothing about the knife 
being there, or the money being gone. Search me and my 
dwelling; you will find nothing there but three pound five of 
my own savings, which William Dane knows I have had these 
six months. 

(Will, shakes his head and murmurs.^ 

MiN. The proof is heavy against you, Master Marner. No 
man was with our departed brother but you alone ; for William 
Dane declares that he was hindered by a sudden sickness from 
going to take his appointed place. You yourself said he had 
not come. Besides this, you neglected the dying man. 

Silas. I must have slept. Or I must have had another 
visitation like you all have seen me under. The thief must 
have come and gone while I was not in my body, but out of 
my body. But I say again, search me and my dwelling, for I 
have been nowhere else. 



SILAS MARNER 7 

First Vest. Very well, Silas, we will search it as you 
desire. [^Exeufit First and Second Vest., k. 

Will. Silas, why do you keep the truth from us ? Would 
it not be better to confess your sin than to have us discover it 
and punish you ? 

THiRd Vest. Come, tell us all about it. 

Silas. William, for nine years we have gone in and out to- 
gether ; have you ever known me to tell a lie ? But God will 
clear me ! 

: Will. Brother, how do I know what you may have done in 
the secret chambers of your heart to give Satan an advantage 
over you ? 

Silas. I remember now, the knife wasn't in my pocket ! 

Will. I know nothing of what you mean ! 

MiN. Yes, Brother Silas, what mean you ? 

Third Vest. Speak out your meaning ! 

Silas. I am sore stricken ! I can say nothing ! God will 
clear me ! 

Reenter Vestrymen, r. 

I 

First Vest. We have searched Mar net's dwelling and 

have found the telltale bag. 

Second Vest. Is not this enough to convict the man ? 

Mm. Aye, the proof is strong ! But we must proceed ac- 
cording to the order of the church. Silas shall have a trial be- 
fore us. Let God's will be done. 

(^Lots are prepared aiid drawn.^ 

First Vest. Is there any more to be said ? 

Silas. William Dane, the last time I remember the knife 
was when I took it out and gave it to you to clean your pipe. 
I don't remember putting it back into my pocket again. You 
stole the money ! and now you weave a plot to prove the crime 
against me ! But you may prosper for all that ! There is no 
just God that governs the world righteously, but a God of lies, 
that bears witness against the innocent ! 

Will. I hope no one hears you, for they might rightly 
think it was the voice of Satan ! I can do nothing but pray 
for you, Silas. 

MiN. Master Marner, we find that the lots declare you 
guilty ! Providence judges rightly. We must not have a guilty 
one in our midst. Silas, you must migrate far away from here 



8 SILAS MARNER 

where you may begin your life anew. We will not let the law 
take hold of you if you will depart from Lantern Yard and 
never return. [^Exeunt all but Silas, r. 

Silas. She, too, will cast me off ! My last friend gone ! 
My good name gone ! Friendship, love, faith gone ! (Pause.') 
I will go far away. I'll hoard up gold ! There's my friend ! 
I'll put my faith in that ! I'll call no human being "friend " 
again ! 



CURTAIN 



ACT II 

SCENE I. — The living-room of the homestead of Squire Cass. 
Godfrey Cass jhovcs restlessly iti his chair near the table 
as if expecting some one to join him. 

Enter Dunstan Cass, c. 

Dun. Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me ? 
You're my elders and betters, you know ; I was obliged to 
come when you sent for me. 

God. Why, this is what I want ; and just shake yourself 
sober and listen, will you ? I want to tell you I must hand 
over that rent of Fowler's to the Squire, or else tell him I gave 
it to you. He's threatening to distrain for it, and it'll all be 
out soon whether I tell him or not. The Squire said just now, 
before he went out, he would send word to the constable, Cox, 
to distrain if Fowler didn't come and pay up his arrears of rent 
this week. The Squire's short of cash and in no humor to 
stand any nonsense. And you know what he threatened if ever 
he found you making away with his money again. So now see 
and get that money for me and pretty quickly, will you ? 

Dun. Oh ! Suppose, now, you get the money yourself, and 
save me the trouble, eh ? Since you were so kind as to hand it 
over to me, you'll not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for 
me ; it was your brotherly love made you do it, you know. 

God. Don't come near me with that look, or I'll knock 
you down ! 

Dun. Oh, no, you won't, because I'm such a good-natured 
brother, you know. I might get you turned out of house and 
home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I might tell the 
Squire how his handsome son was married to that nice young 
woman, Molly Farren, and was very unhappy because he 
couldn't live with his drunken wife. And I should slip into 
your place as comfortable as could be. But I see, I don't do 
it — I'm so easy and good-natured ! You'll take any trouble 
for me. You'll get the hundred pounds for me; I know you 
will. 

God. How can I get the money? I haven't a shilling to 



10 SILAS MARNER 

bless myself with. And it's a lie that you'd slip into my 
place. You'd get yourself turned out, too, that's all. For, if 
you begin telling tales, I'll follow. Bob's my father's favorite ; 
you know that very well. The Squire would only think him- 
self well rid of you. 

Dun. Never mind. It'd be very pleasant to me to go' in 
your company ; you're such a handsome brother. And we've 
been so fond of quarreling with each other, I shouldn't ha' 
known what to do without you. But you'd like better for us 
both to stay at home together; I know you would. So you'll 
manage to get that little sum of money; and I'll bid you good- 
day, though I'm so sorry to part. 

God. I tell you I have no money ! I can get no money ! 

Dun. Borrow it of old Kimble. 

God. I tell you he won't lend me any more; and I shan't 
ask him. 

Dun. . Well, then, sell Wildfire. 

God. Yes, that's easy talking. I must have the money 
directly. 

Dun. Then why don't you get it of the old weaver at the 
Stone-Pits ? I warrant the old miser has a pile of it. 

God. What's he got to do with selling or buying Wildfire? 

Dun. Oh, he's not in the horse-buying business ; but he's 
laid by a lot of money, what with his weaving and saving since 
he came here from the North country. I could make friends 
with him'; I am privileged to go 'most anywhere, you know. 
If he hoards up his gold, I ought, like an accommodating gen- 
tleman, to show him how to get rid of it. 

God. You're deucedly resourceful in your money-getting 
schemes. But I've no business with the old weaver. I guess 
I'll have to part with Wildfire. 

Dun. Well, you've only to ride him to the hunt to-morrow. 
There'll be Bryce and Keating there for sure. You'll get more 
bids than one. 

God. I dare say; and get back home at eight o'clock 
splashed to the chin. I'm going to Mrs. Osgood's birthday 
dance. 

Dun. Oho ! And there's sweet Miss Nancy coming ; and 
we shall dance with her, and promise never to be naughty 
again, and be taken into favor again, and 

God. Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool, or 
I'll throttle you ! 

Dun. What for? You've a very good chance. I'd advise 



SILAS MARKER II 

you to creep up her sleeve again; it'd be saving time. It 
Molly should happen to take a drop too much laudanum some 
day, and make a widower of you ! 

God. I'll tell you what it is, my patience is pretty near at 
an end. If you'd a little more sharpness in you, you might 
know that you may urge a man a bit too far and make one leap 
as easy as another. I don't know but it is so now. I may as 
well tell the Squire myself. 

Dun. Oh, no, you won't, Godfrey, dear; you wouldn't 
dare. And besides, what good would that do ? 

God. I should get you off my back, if I got nothing else. 
And, after all, he'll know some time. She's been threatening 
to come herself and tell him. So don't flatter yourself that 
your secrecy's worth any price you choose to ask. You drain 
me of money till I've got nothing to pacify her with ; and she'll 
do as she threatens some day. It's all one. I'll tell my father 
everything myself, and you may go to the devil. 

Dun. As you please ! But I'll have a draft of ale first. 

(Servant brings ale, C, while God. stands before the fire, ^ 

God. It's just like you to talk about my selling Wildfire in 
that cool way — the last thing I've got to call my own, and the 
best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my Hfe. And if you'd a 
spark of pride in you, you'd be ashamed to see the stables emp- 
tied, and everybody sneering about it. But it's ray belief 
you'd sell yourself, if it was only for the pleasure of making 
somebody feel he'd got a bad bargain. 

Dun. Aye, aye; you do me justice, I see. You know I'm 
a jewel for 'ticing people into bargains. For which reason I'd 
advise you to let me sell Wildfire. I'd ride him to the hunt to- 
morrow for you, with pleasure. I shouldn't look so handsome 
as you in the saddle ; but it's the horse they'll bid for, not the 
rider. 

God. Yes, I dare say, — trust my horse to you ! 

Dun. As you please. It's you have got to pay Fowler's 
money ; it's none of my business. You received the money 
from him when you went to Fowler's, and you told the Squire 
it wasn't paid. I'd nothing to do with that; you chose to be 
so obliging as to give it to me ; that was all. If you don't want 
to pay the money back to the Squire, it's all the same to me. 
But I was willing to accommodate you by undertaking to sell 
the horse, seeing it's not convenient for you to go so far to- 
morrow. 



12 SILAS MARNER 

God. Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh ? 
You'll sell him all fair, and hand over the money ? If you 
don't, you know, everything will go to smash ; for I've nothing 
else to trust to. And you'll have less pleasure in pulling the 
house over^my head when your own skull's to be broken too. 

Dun. Aye, aye, all right. I thought you'd come round. 
I'm the fellow to bring old Bryce up to the scratch. I'll get 
you a hundred and twenty for him if I get you a penny. And 
you shall have the money if I get back alive. 

God. But it'll p'r'aps rain cats and dogs to-morrow as it 
did yesterday j and then you can't go ! 

Dun. Not it. I'm always lucky in my weather. It might 
rain if you wanted to go yourself. You never hold trumps, 
you know. I always do. You've got the beauty, you see, 
and I've got the luck. So you must keep me by you for your 
crooked sixpence; you'll never get along without me. 

God. Confound you, hold your tongue ! and take care to 
keep sober to-morrow, else you'll get pitched on your head 
coming home ; and Wildfire might be the worse for it. 

Dun. Make your tender heart easy ! You never knew me 
to see double when I'd got a bargain to make; it 'ud spoil the 
fun. Besides, when I fall, I'm warranted to fall on my feet. 

(^Exit, c, slamming door ; God. remains in meditation.') 
CURTAIN 



SCENE II. — Interior of Silas's hut. There is a fireplace in 
ivhich Silas's soup-kettle hangs above the coals. A weaver'' s 
loom stands in view. A few other coarse pieces of furniture 
can be seen. Silas is in the act of preparing to go out with 
a finished piece of linen. 

Silas. 'Tis a nasty night for one to leave a comf'table fire 
an' vent're out in this dirty weather. But business is business, 
and my gold increases every day. Priscilla Lammeter needs 
the linen. And she shall have it. 

{Buttons threadbare coat and goes out R. Time elapses. 
Enter Dun., cautiously, R.) 

Dun, Well ! who'd have thought the old codger had such 
a deucedly snug place !—Nice and warm. {Goes to fire, 



SILAS MARNER I3 

warms hands.) And good enough for him. I came up here 
for a lantern but I'll warm myself first. With my clothes in 
this shape, all wet and soiled, I'll probably be brought down 
with a fine cold ! Of all the beastly luck ! I left the Red 
House early with Wildfire, and after striking a good bargain 
with Bryce to sell that nag for one hundred and twenty, I had 
the ill luck to stake him ! He was dead before I knew it. I 
walked, and I walked, the road getting more muddy and dan- 
gerous, for a nasty drizzle had come on. 1 have Godfrey's 
hunting whip with me, and if it hadn't been for that I'd be 
walking yet. I managed to feel my way along somehow. I 
fell down, too, in a beastly hole ; all muddy it was ; worse 
luck ! I managed to crawl out of it at any rate. I had lost 
the road by this time, and I was feeling mad at everybody and 
everything, when I noticed a beam of light through the woods. 
I followed it to this old hut of the weaver. I thought I might 
be able to borrow a lantern, so that I might watch out for the 
Stone-Pits. Br-r-r, what a horrible death that would be ! But 
I mustn't think of such frightful things 1 — What a deuced dis- 
agreeable life the miser must live up here ; all alone ! It must 
be dreadfully lonely, living just to hoard gold ! But I've got 
to hatch up some excuse to give Godfrey. (Pause.) I wonder 
if the old fellow has any money about the place ? He's not in ? 
Maybe he's slipped into the Stone-Pits ! In that case who's 
going to get his money? Anyway, no one will know who took 
it. I wonder where he keeps it ! {Looks about.') It may be 
in the bed, or in the thatch, or in the floor. I'll look anyway. 
{Finds gold in floor.) H'm-m, here it is ! That isn't such 
a bad haul. {Covers hole with sand.) Thanks, Silas, for the 
loan ! But I don't know when you'll get it back ! 

{Buttotis coat and goes out. Time elapses, Silas enters, r.) 

Silas. Oh, I am glad to get back into my nice warm place ! 
If it 'ud on'y pay me to go out such a night ! Them folks, 
the Lammeters, wants me to come to church. Why should I 
go to church? I've no interest there. If they'd on'y let me 
alone, I'd be better off. But they're al'ays a-meddlin'. If it 
ain't the church it's somethin' else ! I don't trust nary one of 
'em ! They're all bad ; but — my gold, my gold I I can trust 
that ! That don't play me no tricks ! I must fetch it and 
count it. {Uncovers hole ; agitated. Looks in other places.) 
My gold ! my gold is gone ! Gone ! Gone ! Where can it 
be ? Maybe it's in the table ! No ! 



14 SILAS MARNER 

(Shrieks. Exit, r. Reenters with Solomon Macey.) 

Macey {to Rev. Mr. Crackenthorpe outside'). Hurry, 
man, the miser's dying ! (To Silas.) What ails y', man ? 
Are you sick ? 

Enter Jem Rodney, r. 
Jem. Crackenthorpe' s a-comin'. 

Enter Crack., r. 

Crack. What ails the man, eh ? 

Silas. My gold is gone 1 I've been robbed ! (^Turns to 
Jem.) If it was you stole my money, give it me back, and I 
won't meddle wi' you ! Give it me back, and I'll give you — 
I'll give you half a guinea ! 

Jem. Me stole your money ! Hm — what should I do that 
for ? tell me that ! 

Crack. Don't get angry wi' him, Jem ! Come, Marner, if 
you've got any information to lay, speak it out sensible like, 
and show as you're in your right mind. If you expect any one 
to listen to you, go on and speak straightfor'ard. Sit down, 
men, sit down ! 

Macey. Ay, ay, make him sit down ! Go on, Marner. 

Silas. Why, I jest come in from Miss Lammeter's. I was 
takin' her some linen that I'd finished. I come in and looked 
for my gold ! It's gone ! Oh, it's gone ! 

Macey. It ain't Jem Rodney as has gone and done the 
stealin' of it. Jem's been wi' me, and I can testify to that, 
since before you left your house. Master Marner, by your own 
account. 

Silas. I was wrong, yes, yes. I ought to have thought. I 
don't accuse you, Jem. I won't accuse nobody. I try, I try, 
to think where the gold can be. 

Jem. How much might there be of that gold, Marner? 

Silas. Two hundred and seventy-Uvo pounds, twelve and 
sixpence, last night when I counted it. 

Macey. Whew ! Why, that'd be none too heavy to 
carry. 

Jem. Ay, they're gone where it's hot enough to melt 'em, 
no doubt. 

Macey. Well, what I'd advise you to do is to get on your 
wraps and go to Master Kenche's ; he's sick, the constable is ; 



SILAS MARNER 1 5 

but he can appoint one of us as depities, and whoever is can 
come back here and help you examine your premises. 
Silas. Ay, mebbe you're right ! 

\^£xii Silas, with the other s^ r. 

CURTAIN 



SCENE III. — Silas is at his work in his home, groaning as he 

spins. 

Silas. My gold, my gold is gone ! I got nothing to com- 
fort me now. I got nothing to cheer me. I'll never trust any 
human creature again. It wasn't bad enough to drive me out 
o' Lantern Yard, where I lived respectable like; but I'm 
hounded wherever I go. I come here to be let alone. They 
take my money, the only prop of my hfe, the only thing that's 
comforted me when I was lone. There ain't no use in livin' 

anyway. I (^Knocking at the door.') What's that? 

Somebody else to torment me, I s'pose ! {Knocking again.') 
No ! No 1 You can't come in. I don't want 

Enter Mrs. Dolly Winthrop with Aaron Winthrop, r. 

Mrs. W. I'd a bakin' yisterday. Master Marner, and the 
lard cakes turned out better nor common, and I'd ha' asked 
you to accept some, if you'd thought well. I don't eat such 
things myself, for a bit a bread's what I like from year's end 
to the other ; but men's stomachs are made so comical ; they 
want a change — they do. I know, God help 'em. 

Silas. I thank ye, ma'am; thank ye kindly. 

{Looks at cakes closely.) 

Mrs. W. There's letters pricked on 'em ; I can't read 'em 
myself, and there's nobody, not Mr. Macey himself, rightly 
knows what they mean; but they've a good meaning, for 
they're the same as is on the pulpit cloth at church. What are 
they, Aaron, my dear? (Aaron hides behind chair.) Oh, 
go, that's naughty. Well, whatever the letters are, they've a 
good meaning ; and it's a stamp as had been in our house, 
Ben says, ever since he was a little un, and his mother used to 
put it on the cakes and I've al'ays put it on too; for if there's 
any good, we've need of it i' this world. 



l6 SILAS MARNER 

Silas. It's I. H. S. 

Mrs. W. Well, to be sure, you can read 'em off. I prick 
'em on all the loaves, and all the cakes, though sometimes they 
won't hold because o' the rising. And I hope they'll bring 
good to you, Master Marner, for it's wi' that will I brought 
you the cakes; and you see the letters have held better nor 
common. 

Silas. Thank you — thank you kindly. 

Mrs. W. But you didn't hear the church bells this morn- 
ing, Master Marner. I doubt you didn't know it was Sunday. 

Silas. Yes, I did ; I heard 'em. 

Mrs. W. Dear heart ! But what a pity it is you should 
work of a Sunday, and not clean yourself — if you didn't go to 
church. Could it ha' been as they'd no church where you was 
born ? 

Silas. Oh, yes. There was churches a many ; it was a 
big town. But I knew nothing of 'em. I went to chapel. 

(Silas offers cake to Aaron, who shri?iks back, but shyly ac- 
cepts it.') 

Mrs. W. Oh, for shame, Aaron ! Why, you don't want 
cake again yet a while. He's wonderful hearty, that he is, 
God knows. {Strokes Aaron's head.) And he's got a voice 
like a bird. You wouldn't think ! He can sing a Christmas 
carrill as his father taught him. Come, Aaron, stan' up and 
sing the carrill to Master Marner, come. (Aaron rubs fore- 
head on his mother'' s shoulder.) Oh, that's naughty. Stan' 
up when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake till you've 
done. 

Aaron {singing, stands just back of table). 

" God rest you, merry gentlemen, 
Let nothing you dismay ; 
For Jesus Christ our Saviour 
Was born on Christmas-day." 

Mrs. W. That's Christmas music. There's no other music 
equil to the Christmas music. The boy sings pretty, don't he, 
Master Marner ? 

Silas. Yes, very pretty. {Offers Aaron more cake.) 
Mrs. W. Oh, no, thank you. Master Marner, We must 
be going home now. And you'll excuse me being that free 
with you, Master Marner, for I wish you well, I do. Make 
your bow, Aaron. 



SILAS MARNER I7 

Silas. Good-bye, and thank you kindly. 

{Exeunt Mrs. W. with Aaron, r. Silas stands as if 
affected by the present of the cakes ivhich he puts carefully 
away. Time elapses.') 

Enter Macey, r. 

Macey. Come, Master Marner, why, you've no call to sit 
a-moanin'. You're a deal better off to ha' lost your money 
nor to ha' kept it by foul means. I used to think, when you 
first come to these parts, as you were no belter as you should 
be. You were younger a deal nor you are now. But you was 
always a starin', white-faced creature, partly like a bald-faced 
calf, as I may say. But there's no knowin'. It isn't every 
queer-looksed thing that Old Harry's had the makin' of — I 
mean, speakin' of toads and such ; for they're often harmless, 
and useful against varmin. And it's pretty much the same wi' 
you, as far as I can see. Though as to the yarbs and stuff to 
cure the breathin', if you brought that sort o' knowledge from 
distant parts, you might ha' been a bit freer of it. And if the 
knowledge wasn't well come by, why, you might ha' made up 
for it by comin' to the church reg'lar. 

Silas. I never want to go to church. Everybody, even 
the children, looks queer at me. 

Macey. As for the children the Wise Woman charmed, 
I've been at the christenin' of 'em again and again, and they 
took the water just as well. And that's reasonable; for if Old 
Harry is a mind to do a bit o' kindness for a holiday Hke, 
who's got anything again that ? That's my thinkin', and I've 
been clerk of this parish forty year. And I know when the 
parson and me does the cussin' of a Ash Wednesday, there's 
no cussin' o' folks as have a mind to be cured without a doc- 
tor, let Dr. Kimble say what he will. And so. Master Marner, 
as I was sayin' — for there's windings in things as they may 
carry you to the fur end o' the Prayer-book afor? you get back 
to 'em — my advice is as you keep up your sperriis. 

Silas. And it's little as I've got to keep my sperrits up. 

Macey. For as for thinkin' you're a deep un, and ha' got 
more inside you nor' 11 bear daylight, I'm not o' that opinion 
at all. And so I tell the neighbors ; for, says I, you talk o' 
Master Marner makin' out a tale, why, it's nonsense, that is. 
It 'ud take a cute man to make a tale like that; and, says I, 
he looked as scared as a rabbit. Come, Master Marner, have 
y' got nothin' to say to that ? 



l8 SILAS MARKER 

Silas. Oh, I thank you, thank you — kindly, sir. 

Macey. Ay, ay, to be sure; I thought you would; and 
my advice is — have you got a Sunday suit ? 

Silas. No. 

Macey. I doubted it was so. Now, let me advise you to 
get a Sunday suit ; there's Tookey, he's a poor creatur', but 
he's got my tailorin' business, and some o' my money in it. 
And he shall make a suit at a low price, and give you trust ; 
and then you can come to church and be a bit neighborly. 
Why, you've never beared me say "Amen ! " since you come 
into these parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it'll 
be poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I mayn't 
be equal to stand in the desk at all come another winter. 

Silas. I'm sorry not to hear you. But where'd I get the 
money for the clothes ? 

Macey. As for the money for the suit o' clothes, why, you 
get a matter of a pound a week at your weavin', Master Marner, 
and you're a young man, eh ? for all you look so mushed. 
Why, you couldn't ha' been five-and-twenty when you come 
into these parts, eh ? 

Silas. I don't know ; I can't rightly say — it's a long time 
since. 

Macey. Well, I'll bid you good-evenin', Master Marner. 
I hope to see you in the church soon ; good-night. [^Exif, r. 

Silas. They'll never get me in the church. Buy a suit ! 
I'm goin' to save my money again, to have a friend again. 



CURTAIN 



ACT III 

SCENE 1. — Squire talking with Dr. Kimble j Mrs. Crack- 
ENTHORPE and others in background. 

(A New Year'' s party at the Red House, home of Squire. 
Macey with his fiddle, atid others of the country orchestra, 
tuning up. ) 

Squire {to Mr. Lammeter). Ay, ay, us old fellows may 
wish ourselves young to-night when we see the mistletoe bough 
in the white parlor. It's true, most things are gone back'ard 
in these last thirty years. The country's goin' down since the 
old king fell ill. 

Dr. K. There, Squire, there's Lammeter's daughter, Nancy, 
as sweet and pretty as ever. 

Squire. When 1 look at Miss Nancy here, I begin to think 
the lasses keep up their quality. Ding me, if I remember a 
sample to match her ! not when 1 was a fine young fellow, and 
thought a deal of my pigtail. No offense to you, madam. 
{To Mrs. C.) I didn't know you when you were as young as 
Miss Nancy here. 

Mrs. C. Oh, no offense, Squire. 

Squire. And who is this rosy-looking little chap? 

Enter Mrs. W. and Aaron, c. 

Mrs. W. {to Aaron). Can't you speak to the Squire, 
Aaron ? The poor child is nervous like. Squire. Them frills 
'round his neck scratches him so he's all out o' sorts. 

Squire. Ay, no doubt. I remember how them same col- 
lars fretted me. 

Aaron. Mayther, how does that big cock's feather stick in 
Mrs. Crackenthorpe's head ? Is there a little hole for it like in 
my shuttlecock ? 

Mrs. W. Hush, lad, hush ; that's the way the ladies dress 
themselves, that is. It does make her look funny, though 
— partly like a short-necked bottle wi' a long quill in it. 

Squire. Well, Godfrey, you here at last ? Ah, Miss Nancy, 
we are honored with your presence. 

19 



20 SILAS MARNER 

Dr. K. Now, Miss Nancy, you won't forget your promise. 
You're to save a dance for me, you know. 

Squire. Come, come, Kimble, don't you be too for'ard. 
Give the young uns fair play. There's my son Godfrey'll be 
wantin' to have a tilt with you if you run off with Miss Nancy. 
He's bespoke her for the first dance, I'll be bound. Eh, sir, 
what do you say? Haven't you asked Miss Nancy for the first 
dance ? 

God. No, sir, I've not asked her yet, but I hope she'll con- 
sent, if nobody else has been before me. 

Nancy Lammeter. No, I've not engaged myself. 

Squire. There's Solomon Macey and his players tuned up 
ready for the dance. Open the doors. Come, Kimble, we'll 
all go in. {^Exeunt all but Squire and God., C. 

God. Oh, father, this way a minute ! 

Squire. Well, what do you want ? 

God. There's been a cursed piece of ill luck with Wildfire ; 
happened the day before yesterday. 

Squire. What ! broke his knees ? I thought you knew how 
to ride better than that, sir. I never threw a horse down in my 
life. If I had I might ha' whistled for another ; for my father 
wasn't quite so ready to unstring as some other fathers I know 
of. But they must turn over a new leaf, they must. What 
with mortgages and arrears, I'm as short o' cash as a roadside 
pauper. And that fool Kimble says the newspaper's talkin' 
about peace. Why, the country wouldn't have a leg to stand 
on. Prices 'uld run down like a jack, and I should never get 
ray arrears ; not if I sold all the fellows out. 

God. You've got those outlying farms ; and Fowler 

Squire. And there's that damned Fowler ! I won't put up 
v/ith him any longer ; the lying scoundrel told me he'd be sure 
to pay me a hundred last month. He takes advantage because 
he's on that outlying farm, and thinks I shall forget him. 

God. It's worse than breaking the horse's knees, — he's been 
staked and killed. But I wasn't thinking of asking you to buy 
me another horse ; I was only thinking I'd lost the means of 
paying you with the price of Wildfire, as I meant to do. Dun- 
sey took him to the hunt to sell him for me the other day. 
And after he'd made a bargain for a hundred and twenty with 
Bryce, he went after the hounds and took some fool's leap or 
other that did for the horse at once. 

Squire. Well, you ought to have known better than to let 
Dunsey have him ! 



SILAS MARNER 21 

God. If it hadn't been for that, I should have paid you ;:. 
hundred pounds this morning. The truth is, sir, I'm very 
sorry ; I was quite to blame. Fowler did pay that hundred 
pounds rent. He gave it to me when I was over there one day 
last month, and Dunsey bothered me for the money ; and I let 
him have it because I hoped I should be able to pay It to you 
before this. 

Squire. You let Dunsey have it, sir ? And how long have 
you been so thick with Dunsey that you must plot with him to 
embezzle my money ? Are you turning out a scamp ? I tell 
you I won't have it ! I'll turn the whole pack of you out of the 
house together, and marry again. I'd have you remember, sir, 
my property's got no entail on it ; since my grandfather's time, 
the Casses can do as they please with their lands. Remember 
that, sir ! Let Dunsey have the money ! Why should you let 
Dunsey have the money ? There's some lie at the bottom of this. 

God. There's no lie, sir. I wouldn't have spent the money 
myself; but Dunsey bothered me and I was a fool and let 
.him have it. But I meant to pay it, whether he did or not. 
That's the whole story. I never meant to embezzle money, and 
I'm not the man to do it. You never knew me to do a dis- 
honest trick, sir. 

Squire. Where's Dunsey, then ? What do you stand there 
talking for? Go and fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let him 
give an account of what he wanted the money for, and what 
he's done with it. He shall repent, or I'll turn him out. I 
said I would, and I'll do it. He shan't brave me. , Go and 
fetch him 1 

God. Dunsey isn't back, sir. 

Squire. What ! Did he break his own neck, then ? 

God. No, he's made to hurt other people. He wasn't hurt, 
I believe. The horse was found dead and Dunsey must have 
walked off. I dare say we shall see him again by and by. I 
don't know where he is. 

Squire. And what must you be letting him have my money 
for ? Answer me that ! 

God. Well, sir, I don't know. 

Squire. You don't know? I tell you what it is, sir; 
you've been up to some trick and you've been bribing him not 
to tell ! 

God. Why, sir, it was a little affair between me and Dun- 
sey ; it's not anything for any one else. It's hardly worth vdiile 
to pry into young men's fooleries ; it wouldn't have made any 



22 SILAS MARNER 

difference to you, sir, if I'd not the ill luck to lose Wildfire. 
1 should have paid you the money. 

Squire. Fooleries, pshaw ! It's time you'd done with fool- 
eries. And I'd have you know, sir, you must ha' done with 
'em. Your goings-on are not what I shall find money for any 
longer ! There's my grandfather had his stables full of horses, 
and kept a good house, too, and in worse times than these, by 
what I can make out. And so might I, if I hadn't four good- 
for-nothing fellows to hang on me like horse-leeches. I've been 
too good a father to you all, that's what it is. But I shall pull 
up, sir. It'll be all the worse for you, you know — you'd need 
try and help one keep things together. 

God. Well, sir, I've often offered to take the management 
of things, but you know you've taken it ill always^ and seemed 
to think that I wanted to push you out of your place. 

Squire. I know nothing of your offering, or of my takin' it 
ill; but I know one while you seem to be thiiikin' o' marryin', 
and I didn't offer to put any obstacle in your way, as some 
fathers would. I'd as lief you'd marry Lammeter's daughter 
as anybody. I suppose if I'd say you nay, you'd ha' kept on 
with it; but for want of contradiction, you've changed your 
mind. The lass hasn't said downright she won't have you, has 
she? 

God. No, but I don't think she will. 

Squire. Think ! why haven't you the courage to ask her ? 
Do you stick to it, you want to have her ? That's the thing ! 

God. There's no other woman I want to marry. 

Squire. Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that's 
all, if you haven't the pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter isn't 
likely to be loath for his daughter to marry into piy family, I 
should think. And as for the pretty lass, she wouldn't have 
her cousin, and there's nobody else could ha' stood in your 
way. 

God. I'd rather let it be, please, sir, at present. I think 
she's a little offended with me just now ! and I should like to 
speak for myself 

Squire. Well, speak, then, and manage it, and see if you 
can't turn over a new leaf. That's what a man must do when 
he's thinking o' marrying. 

God. I don't see how I can think of it at present, sir. You 
wouldn't like me to settle on one of the farms, I suppose, and I 
don't think she'd come to live in this house with all my brothers. 
It's a different sort of life to what she's been used to. 



SILAS MARNER 23 

Squire. Not come to live in this house? Don't tell ine I 
You ask her, that's all. 

God. I'd rather let the thing be at present, sir. I hope 
you won't try to hurry it on by saying anything. 

Squire. I shall do what I choose ! And I shall let you 
know I'm master ! Else you may turn out, and find an estate 
to drop into somewhere else. Now come along into the white 
parlor ; they're looking for me now. 

(As Squire /eaves Silas knocks. Dr. K. enters c, and he 
and God. usher the miser in, L. He tells his story to 
them, while he holds a small child in his arms.^ 

Silas. There's a woman — dead, I think — dead in the snow 
at the Stone- Pi Is — not far from iny door ! 

Dr. K. Godfrey, say as little as possible to the ladies, for it 
might shock them. I'll get on my things. You tell the Squire 
about it quietly and you and I'll go and help. 

{Exit Dr. K., c. God. leaves Silas sitting with the child 
and fetches the Squire, c.) 

God. Marner says there's a woman dead at the Stone-Pits. 
He's got her child there. Dr. Kimble and I are going over to 
help Marner. (Squire looks at child. God., aside.') It may be 
my wife Molly's child, and Molly may be the dead woman 

Squire. I'll go and fetch the ladies. 

God. But Dr. Kimble said not 

Squire. I'll not allow Kimble to manage affairs in my 
house ! 

{Exit Squire, c, followed by God. Enter Squire and 
God. with rest of party, c.) 

Mrs. C. What child is it ? 

Mrs. W. Yes, whose child is it? 

Nancy. Godfrey, whose child is it ? 

God. I don't know. Some poor woman's who's been 
found dead in the' snow, I believe. (Aside.) After all, am I 
certain ? [Exit, l. 

Mrs. C. Weil, then, Master Marner, you'd better leave the 
child here. I'll tell one of the women to fetch it. 

Silas. No ! No ! I can't part with it ! I can't let it go ! 
It's come to me ! I've a right to keep it ! 

Reenter God., l. 



24 SILAS MARNER 

God. Well, ladies, I met Dr. Kimble coming from the 
Stone-Pits. He assures me the woman is quite dead. He sent 
me home, for, he said, it was no time to be walking about with 
pumps on. It's snowing hard, you know. 

Mrs. C. We all had better pack up and leave before it 
snows any harder. 

Squire. Yes, Mrs. Crackenthorpe, perhaps you're right. 

It'll be disagreeable with the snow blowin'. Well, we 

\_Exeunt all but Silas a7id God. , l. 

God. You'll take the child to the Parish House to-morrow ? 

Silas. Who says so ? Will they make me give her up ? 

God. Why, you wouldn't like to keep her; an old bachelor 
like you ? 

Silas. Till anybody shows they've a right to take her from 
me ! The mother's dead ; and I reckon it's got no father. 
It's a lone thing. My money's gone, I don't know where, and 
this's come from I don't know where. 

God. Poor little thing ! Let me give something toward 
finding clothes for it. (^Gives Silas money. Silas leaves with 
the child, l.) The way is clear for me now. Molly, my wife, 
is dead. Dunsey's cursed hold is loosed from my throat at 
last. My courage is up again. Now, I'll marry Nancy ! 



CURTAIN 



ACT IV 

SCENE I. — Interior of Silas's hut. Several years have elapsed. 
Silas is working listlessly at his loom. Aaron is seated 
near him, talking. 

Aaron. How did you happen to call her " Eppie," Master 
Marner ? 

Silas. It was the name of my little sister that I carried in 
my arms for many days before she died ; and then it was — it 
was my mother's name. Ay, she's took the place of both 
mother and sister. There was no other name for her. Eppie. 
Eppie. 

Aaron. Eppie ! It sounds prettier every day. She was 
talking to me to-day about how bad she wanted a garden. Til 
make her one. It won't be much work for me. But here she 
comes now ! 

Enter Eppie, r. 

Eppie, Aaron, have you been with father all this time ? 

Aaron. Yes, I've been here all the time. But mother's 
waiting for me. I'll be back again, Eppie, to talk over that 
garden. Good-bye, Master Marner. \^Exit, r. 

Eppie. I wish we had a little garden, father, with double 
daisies in it, Hke Mrs. Winthrop's; only they say it 'ud take a 
deal of digging, and bringing of fresh soil ; and you couldn't 
do that, could you, father ? Anyhow, I shouldn't like you to 
do it, for it 'ud be too hard work for you. 

Silas. Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit of 
garden. These long evenings I could work at taking in a little 
bit o' the waste, just enough for a root or two of flowers for 
you. And again, i' the morning I could ha' a turn wi' the 
spade before I sat down to the loom. Why didn't you tell me 
before as you wanted a bit o' garden ? 

Eppie. Well, Aaron said he'd do it, father ; when the 
work's slack, he can find odd bits o' time. He's coming this 
afternoon, — to — settle — what land's to be taken in. But not un- 
less you promise me not to work at the hard diggin', father. 
For I shouldn't ha' said anything about it. Aaron said as he 

25 



26 SILAS MARKER 

was only too glad and willing to do a turn o' work for you. 
And, father, you won't work in it till it's all easy, and you and 
me can mark out the beds, and make holes and plant the roots. 

Silas. All right, Eppie, child, I'll promise; and won't we 
look fine with our plants and hedges ! 

Eppie. It'll be a deal livelier at the Stone-Pits when we've 
got some flowers, for I always think that flowers can see us, 
and know what we are talkin' about. And what land's to be 
taken in 

Silas. Eh — Aaron's told me all. (Eppie approaches Silas. 
Leans her head on Silas's shoulder.) And you'll bring him 
here to live? And you'll both take care of me in my old 
days ? When Providence brought this golden hair to my cot- 
tage it was better than all the gold I lost. And, Eppie, I'm 
goin' to give a party — to-night for Aaron and you. He's goin' 
to fetch his mother and Mr. Macey. And I expect Mr. and 
Mrs. Cass. Ay, he's a good lad, is Aaron. I could make the 
garden, though. 

Eppie. But not unless you promise me not to work too hard. 
I'll have a bit of rosemary and bergamot, and thyme because 
they're so sweet-smelling; and Aaron said he would bring us 
slips of anything ; and he said he could get us a slip o' lavender 
from the Red House. 

Silas. Well, so as you don't make free for us, or ask for any- 
thing as is worth much at the Red House ; for Mr. Godfrey's 
been so good to us, and built us up a new end of the cottage, 
and given us beds and things, as I couldn't abide to be imposin' 
for the garden stuff or anything else. Well, Aaron was going 
to bring his mother over this afternoon, you know, and she can 
tell us more about the garden than any one else I knows of. 

Eppie. Oh, daddie, my little old daddie ! I'm so glad ! I 
don't think I shall want anything else when we've got a little 
garden, and I knew Aaron would dig it for us— I knew that 
very well. 

Silas. You're a deep little puss, you are, but you'll make 
yourself fine and beholden to Aaron. 

Eppie. Oh, no, I shan't, he hkes it ! 

Silas. Oh, I —, — But go to the door, Eppie, somebody 
knocks. {Enter God. and Nancy, r.) Well, ah, good 
afternoon, Mr. Cass, and Mrs. Cass, too ! Come in ! Eppie, 
my child, get chairs for Mr. Godfrey and Mrs. Cass. 

Nancy {to Eppie). It does one good to see such a picture 
o' health and happiness ! 



SILAS MARNER 27 

God. I've got something disagreeable to tell you, Marner. 
It's nobody living. It's Dunstan, my brother Dunstan that we 
lost sight of sixteen years ago. We've found him — found his 
body — his skeleton. 

Silas. In the Stone-Pits ? 

God. The Stone-Pits have gone dry suddenly, from the 
draining, I suppose ; and there he lay, has lain for sixteen 
years, wedged between two great stones. There's his watch 
and seals, and there's my gold-handled hunting whip with my 
name on ; he took it away, without ray knowing, the day he 
went hunting. 

Silas. Do you think he drowned himself? 

God. No, lie fell in ! Dunstan was the one that robbed 
you of your gold I There was the money in the Pit, all of it. 
Everything's been gathered up, and they've taken the skeleton 
to the Rainbow. I've brought you back your stolen gold. 

(Silas sits dazed, disregarding gold.^ 

Eppie. Father, do you hear what Mr. Cass is saying ? 

(^Ptits hand o?i his shoulder.') 

Silas. Ay, I heard him. 

God. Well, Marner, it's a great comfort to me to see you 
with your money again that you've been deprived of so many 
years. It was one of my family did you the wrong — the more 
grief to me, and I feel bound to make up to you now for it in 
every way. 

Nancy. It's only fair that we should do something, Master 
Marner. 

God. Whatever I can do for you will be nothing but pay- 
ing a debt, even if I looked no further than the robbery. But 
there are other things I'm beholden — shall be beholden to you 
for, Marner. 

Silas. Sir, I've a deal to thank you for a'ready. As for the 
robbery, I count it no loss to me. And if I did, you weren't 
answerable for it. 

God. You may look at it in that way, Marner ; but I never 
can. And I hope you'll let me act according to my own feel- 
ing of what's just. I know you're e-asily contented ; you've 
been a hard-working man all your life. 

Silas. Yes, sir, yes. I should ha' been bad off without 



26 SILAS MARKER 

my work ; it was what I held by when everything else was gone 
from me. 

God. Ah, it was a good trade for you in this country, be- 
cause there's a great deal of linen-weaving to be done. But 
you're getting rather past such close work, Marner ; it's time 
you laid by and had some rest. You look a good deal pulled 
down, though you're not an old man, are you ? 

Silas. Five and fifty, as near as I can say, sir. 

God. Oh, why, you may live thirty years longer. Look at 
old Macey ! And that money on the table is but little, after 
all. It won't go far either way, whether it's put out to inter- 
est, or you were to live on it as long as it would last. It 
wouldn't go far if you'd nobody to keep but yourself, and 
you've two to keep for a good many years now. 

Silas. Eh, sir, I'm in no fear o' want ; we shall do very 
well. Eppie and me'll do well enough. There's few working 
folks have got so much laid by as that. I don't know what it 
is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it as a deal, almost too much. 
And as for us, it's little we want. 

Eppie, Only the garden, father. 

Nancy. You love a garden, my dear ? We should agree in 
that ; I give a deal of time to the garden. 

God. Ah, there's plenty of gardening at the Red House. 
You've done a good part by Eppie, Marner, for sixteen years. 
It'd be a great comfort to you to see her well provided for, 
wouldn't it ? She looks blooming and healthy, but not fit for 
any hardships ; she doesn't look like a strapping girl come of 
working parents. You'd like to have her taken care of by those 
who can leave her well off and make a lady of her ; she's more 
fit for it than for a rough life, such as she might come to have 
in a few years' time. 

Silas. I don't take your meaning, sir. 

God. Well, my meaning is this, Marner ; Mrs. Cass and I, 
you know, have no children — nobody to be the better for our 
good home, and everything else that we have — more than 
enough for ourselves. And we should like to have somebody in 
the place of a daughter to us — and we should like \o have Ep- 
pie. 

Nancy, And treat her in every way as our own child. 

God. It'd be a great comfort to you in your old age, I 
hope, to see her fortune made in that way, after you've been at 
the trouble of bringing her up so well. And it's right you 
should have every reward for that. And Eppie, I'm sure, will 



SILAS MARNER 29 

always love you and be grateful to you ; she'd come and see you 
very often, and we should be on the lookout to do everything 
we could toward making you comfortable. 

Silas. Eppie, my child, speak. I won't stand in your way. 
Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass. 

Eppie. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, sir. But I can't 
leave my father, nor own any one nearer than him. And I 
don't want to be a lady. Thank you all the same. I couldn't 
give up the folks I'm used to. 

God. But I've a claim on you, Eppie — the strongest of all 
claims. It's my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my child, and 
provide for her. She's my own child ; her mother was my 
wife. I've a natural claim on her that must stand before every 
other. 

Silas. Then, sir, why didn't you say so sixteen years ago, 
and claim her before I'd come to love her, i'stead o' coming to 
take her from me now, when you might as well take the heart 
out o' my body ? God gave her to me because you turned 
your back upon her, and He looks upon her as mine. You've 
no right to her ! When a man turns a blessing from his door it 
falls to them as take it in. 

God. I know that, Marner ; I am sorry. I've repented of 
my conduct in that matter. 

Silas. I'm glad to hear it, sir; but repentance doesn't alter 
what's been^goin' on for sixteen year. Your comin' now and 
sayin' "I'm her father" doesn't alter the feelings inside us. 
It's me she's been callin' her father ever since she could say the 
word. 

God. But I think you might look at the thing more reason- 
ably, Marner ; it is not as if she was to be taken quite away 
from you, so that you'd never see her again. She'll be very 
near you, and come to see you very often. She'll feel just the 
same toward you. 

Silas. Just the same ? How'll she feel just the same as she 
does now, when we eat o' the same bit, and drink o' the same 
cup, and think o' the same things from one day's end to an- 
other ? Just the same ? That's idle talk. You'd cut us in 
two. 

God. I should have thought, Marner, I should have thought 
your affection for Eppie would make you rejoice in what was for 
her good even if it called upon you to give up something. You 
ought to remember your own life's uncertain, and she's at an 
age when her lot may soon be fixed in a way very different from 



30 



SILAS MARNER 



what it would be in her father's home ; she may marry some 
low working man. 

Eppie. But, Mr. Cass, I couldn't leave father all alone. 
And what's more, I love Aaron Winthrop, and I'm promised to 
him ! 

God. And then, whatever I might do for her, I couldn't 
make her well off ! You're putting yourself in the way of her 
welfare; and though I'm sorry to hurt you after what you've 
done, and what I've left undone, I feel now it's my duty to in- 
sist in taking care of my own daughter. I want to do my duty. 

Silas. I'll say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to 
the child ; I'll hinder nothing. 

God. Eppie, my dear, it'll always be my wish that you 
should show your love and gratitude to one who's been a father 
to you so many years, and we shall want to help you to make 
him comfortable in every way. But we hope you'll come to 
love us well ; and though I haven't been what a father should 
ha' been to you all these years, I wish to do the utmost in my 
power for you for the rest of my life, and provide for you as 
my only child. And you'll have the best of mothers in my 
wife. That'll be a blessing you haven't known since you were 
old enough to know it. 

Nancy. My dear, you'll be a treasure to me; we shall 
want for nothing when we have our daughter. 

Eppie. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, sir, for your 
offer. They're very great, and far above my wish. For I 
should have no delight i' life any more if I was forced to go 
away from my father, and knew he was sitting at home, 
a-thinking of me and feeling alone. We've been used to bein' 
happy together every day, and I can't think o' no happiness 
without him. And he says he'd nobody i' the world till I was 
sent to him, and he'd have nothing when I was gone, and he's 
took care of me and loved me from the first, and I'll cleave to 
him as long as he lives, and nobody shall ever come between 
him and me. 

Silas. But you must make sure, Eppie, you must make 
sure as you won't ever be sorry because you've made your 
choice to stay among poor folks, and with poor clothes and 
things, when you might ha' had everything o' the best. 

Eppie. I can never be sorry, father. I shouldn't know 
what to think on or to wish for wi' fine things about me as I 
haven't been used to. And it 'ud be poor work for me to put 
on things and ride in a gig, and sit in a place at church, as'd 



SILAS MARNER 



31 



make them as I'm fond of think me unfitting company for 'em. 
What could I care for them ? 

Nancy. What you say is natural, my dear child ; it's nat- 
ural you should cling to those who've brought you up; but 
there's a duty you owe to your lawful father. There's perhaps 
something to be given up on more sides than one. When 
your father opens his home to you, I think it's right you 
shouldn't turn your back on it. 

Eppie. I can't feel as I've got any father but one. I've 
always thought of a little home where he'd sit i' the corner, 
and I should fend and do everything for him; I can't think o' 
no other home. I wasn't brought up to be a lady, and I can't 
turn my mind to it. I like the working folks, and their victuals, 
and their ways ; and I've promised to marry a working man 
as' 11 live with father and help to care for him. 

God. Let us go. 

Nancy. We won't talk of this any longer now. We are 
your well-wishers, my dear, and yours too, Marner. We shall 
come and see you again. It's getting late now. Good- 
afternoon. {_Exeunt God. and Nancy, r. 

Eppie. Do you s'pose they'll come to the party now ? 

Enter Mrs. W. and Aaron, r. 

Silas. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Winthrop. I told Aaron to 
bring you over. You're always welcome. Get chairs for 
them, Eppie. 

Mrs. W. Well, Master Marner, you desarve all you got. 
When I look at you now, happy and contented, with a nice 
little home, I don't like to think of the little shriveled up old 
man who come sixteen years ago. It was a hard row, but you 
come out on top ; I always said you would. With that tied to 
you, too. And such a pretty house ! 

Enter Macey with God. and Nancy, r. 

Macey. Master Marner, I've lived to see my words come 
true. I was the first to say there was no harm in goin' ; 
though your looks might be agin you ; and I was the first to 
say you'd get your money back. And it's nothing but right- 
ful as you should {Looks «/ Eppie. ) And I'd ha' said 

the amens at the holy matrimony, but Tookey's done it a good 
while now, and I hope you'll have none the worse luck. 

God. And, Marner, you'd better forget what we said. 



32 SILAS MARNER 

I'here's none in Raveloe to wish you better luck than Nancy 
and me. 

Silas. Ay, you people are might 

Enter Will., r., in rags. 

Will. Silas, Silas ! It's me, your old — friend. Can't 
you, won't you forgive me of the wrong I did you ? I've come 
all the way from Lantern Yard to get you to forgive me. 

Silas. Your crimes drove me from Lantern Yard. I 
hoarded up gold and put my faith in it. That was stolen, 
and my little Eppie came and now I put my faith in her. A 
happy old man can forgive his early enemies. You must join 
us with all these friends. We are giving a supper in honor of 
the betrothal of Eppie to Aaron. 



CURTAIN 



J1* m. Pinero's Plays 

Price, SO ecnte Each 

IWTH THANNPI Play in Four Acts. Six males, five females. 
^"'^"V'nrYlinLilj Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. 
Plays two and a half hours. 

THE NOTORIOUS MRS. EBBSMITH H^r ''^^,Tt 

males, five females. Costumes, modern; scenery, all interiors. 
Plays a full evening. 

THF PRHFIir'ATF Playin Four Acts. Seven males, five 
l***-" lIVV/rLilUrVlEi females. Scenery, three interiors, rather 
•laborate ; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening, 

THF QfHnni IVIIQTDFQQ Farce in Three Acts. Ninemales, 
ini:i iJV/nWV/LilTllO 1 IVCiOO seven females. Costumes, mod- 
ern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a full evening. 

THE SECOND MRS. TANQUERAY ^lirlZlXe 

females. Costumes, modern; scenery, three interiors. Plays a 
full evening. 

^WFFT I AVFAinFR Comedyin Three Acts. Seven males, 
OillliLtl lji\Jl LilJUiUlX four females. Scene, a single Interior, 
costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. 

THF THf TWnFRRni T Comedy in Four Acts. Ten males, 
iniJ inUilLfCiIVUV^Lil nine females. Scenery, three interi- 
ors; costumes, modern. Plays a full evening. 

THF TIIVFF^ Comedy in Four Acts. Six males, seven females. 
■**Ei 1 llTlEiO Scene, a single interior ; costumes, modern. Plays 
a full evening. 

THF WFAITFR ^FY' Comedy in Three Acts. Eight males, 
inCi TT £i/\IV,£iIV OCdA. eight females. Costumes, modern; 
scenery, two interiors. Plays a full evening. 

A WIFE WITHOUT A SMILE Fl'^mlles, four females! 
Costumes, modern ; scene, a single interior. Plays a full evening. 



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AS Yftll I IKT IT Comedy in Fire Acts. Thirteen males, four 
Ai^ IvU lilB.lt 11 females. Costomes, picturesque ; scenery, va- 
ried. Plays a full evening. 

CAMIT I F I*""^"^* J"^ Five Acts. Nine males, five females. Cos- 
VAIUU4I4L1 tumes, modern ; scenery, varied. Plays a full evening. 

INfiOMAV Pl^y ill Five Acts. Thirteen males, three females. 
■iiUVulAA Scenery varied ; costumes, Greek. Plays a full evening. 

MARY STUART Tragedy in rive Acts. Thirteen males, four fe- 
ITIAIM aj 111 An I males, and supernumeraries. Costumes, of the 
period ; scenery, varied and elaborate. Plays a full evening. 

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE SX'l^?e!7e1nt?:L- SX": 

picturesque ; scenery varied. Plays a full evening. 

RICHFT FFIT •'^^^y ^^ ^^^^ Acts. Fifteen males, two females. Scen- 
I\lWUL«lyU(U ery elaborate ; costumes of the period. Plays a full 
evening. 

THF RIVAI S Comedy in Five Acts. Nine males, five females. 
IlUt niTALfij Scenery varied; costumes of the period. Plays a 
full evening. , 

SBE STOOPS TO CONQUER SSo^? fL\Vt"lcen^r?r 

ried ; costumes of the period. Plays a full evening. 

TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL "i^^^i^t 

three females. Costumes, picturesque ; scenery, varied. Plays a 
full evening. 



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